


If We Ever Meet Again (Our Fight Will Be Over)

by CattyJay



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-03-19 00:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3589527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CattyJay/pseuds/CattyJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke expected to be met by familiar green eyes staring back at her. To feel the addictive brush of that gaze over her skin. But these eyes weren’t those of her Commander, dark and unwavering. These were far more sinister. </p><p>Those of a Queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 2x16

"I'll keep them safe."

Those were the last words given to her as a strong hand grasped at her elbow. Lincoln pulled in close, his other hand resting on Clarke's shoulder. She could see it in the eyes of the warrior, the sympathy and pain that swam behind them. He knew she wasn't coming back. As soon as his name had fallen from her lips, he had to have known.

She asked him a small mercy. A way out. A way not to see the pity and misplaced pride in the eyes of her people every time she looked at them. To not be plagued by what she had done to return them home.

And so he gave it.

She expected her friend to tell her no, to protect her like he always had. Every since Clarke had know him, he had always been a protector of those he loved, every since he found Octavia, broken and bruised. So she was surprised when he didn't comment or hesitate. But she was grateful. Grateful for the soft-spoken words, and for the promise to her people.

"I can't go back, Lincoln."

He'd nodded gravely. A deep seeded understanding that seemed to go beyond what any of her people could offer. He wordlessly handed her his leather bound journal, showing her where to find his shelter. And also where to find his capital. The last of which saw a surprised flicker seep behind his dark eyes at the question. But again, he didn't hesitate.

"May we meet again," she breathed, before releasing her grip.

He responded without words, Clarke watching him turn his back to catch up to Octavia. His hand slipped gently into hers, Clarke's view of the pair disappearing into the broken line of her people.

* * *

She didn't bother being silent. They knew she was there. She could see them through the trees, their bows taut and ready. But she kept her eyes on the gates ahead of her, the late afternoon sun shining at her back, casting a dark orange haze over the rusted steel and high walls of the capital.

Whispers followed her in Trigedasleng from guard to guard as she passed. But no one touched her, Clarke walking purposefully to the imposing front gates. Twigs and underbrush gave way to her, the sounds of her footfalls melding with that of Polis. She could hear the distant commotion of a city alive with conversation and child's laughter.

The sounds of life.

Innocence.

Something she no longer was, and barely even remembered.

It had been two months since she'd left Camp Jaha, two months since she'd said goodbye to Bellamy, and to her mother, and her friends. And two months since she'd asked Lincoln for a way out.

By the time Clarke had left his burrow there was a frost covering the damp earth, dusting the surrounding trees and freezing the air. It had turned bitterly cold after the first four weeks, the cave walls bracing her during the coming winter.

And by the time she'd left, there was hardly a wall that wasn't covered by charcoal and limestone. The dark cave rock was alive with images of a far off life, of a happiness she scarcely remembered. Her tiny cell on the Ark housed sketches of a life she only dreamed of, and now the cave walls held those same dreams. And it was all Clarke could do, to put her mind at ease, to have the vivid memories fade, even for a moment. To have the bloodshed and the weight lifted.

But she thanked Lincoln every day. For giving her somewhere away from the Mountain, and TonDC, and Camp Jaha, and the bunker that she and Finn called home. Away from everything she knew. It was a kindness she never thought she could repay.

But even as the weeks floated on, and the seasons changed, seeing Clarke heal and forget and memories fade to a background hum, a weight that never lifted, one no amount of charcoal or paint or time could ever erase, was one of those eyes. That green grey that she saw every time she closed her own. Before the Mountain, and the faces of her people came, it was always those eyes. Etched in war paint and darkness. Like the most beautiful nightmare realised.

She remembered the words of her best friend. Of Bellamy. Of those kind words that he'd offered Charlotte all those months ago. The thought made her throat thick, and her chest heavy. But she had to go. She had to face her. It was the only way this pain and those eyes were to fade. She had to face her demons. Even if by the light of day, that demon took her breath away for an entirely different reason.

The guard closest to Clarke watched her with an emotionless stare, his hand gripping his spear that was imbedded in the cold earth. She stayed silent, gauging him. But he didn't shift, waiting for any sign of a threat from the Sky girl, perhaps.

Clarke noted that the grounders here were different somehow. Cleaner, their war paint sharper, and their clothes darker than that of the outlying villages and outposts she'd come to know and pass. Like in the shadow of the wall and beyond, there was no need for camouflage or to stay hidden. They stood in plain sight. There was something sinister about them. Dangerous even.

When the man didn't speak, Clarke opened her mouth. "My name is Clarke-" Her voice was tight and bolder than she suddenly felt. It sounded foreign, not having heard it in so long.

"Kom Skaikru," he finished, his tone deep, foreboding. "You've been expected."

"Expected?" Clarke shadowed. He inclined he's head. Clarke hesitated. "I'm here to see your leader. Lexa."

Saying her name out loud scolded her throat, a mix of anger and sadness coming to the surface. Mistrust. And for a brief moment, Clarke swore she saw the hint of a smirk on the guard's face before the gates clunked behind him, the sound of heavy gears grinding as it opened.

He stepped back, letting Clarke see her first glimpse of the capital; a long paved street, teeming with life. But before she was allowed passage, the guard stopped her with an outstretched arm, turning his hand palm up and looking at her silently, expectant.

Clarke understood, upholstering her gun and her knife, and placing them in his hand reluctantly, the guard nodding and stepping back.

"Our  _leader_  will see you now." His tone was dry, almost a jest. But Clarke dismissed it. The man nodded at two guards just inside the city walls, followed by a foreign sound akin to a grunt.

Both turned on their heels to set a pace that Clarke followed. And as she did, her eyes went wide, stepping past the heavy steel doors and into the capital that was blanketed in the orange haze of sunset.

Polis was a labyrinth, that much she could tell. Stone pavers and long forgotten roads sprayed out like a spider's web, covered in moss and overgrown vines. But they didn't seem out of place, like the people of Polis chose to keep them. They crept up cement and brick that lined the streets, covering houses and buildings and lampposts.

Clarke suspected most of the city's infrastructure withstood the bombs, many buildings still standing if not corroded and shells of their former selves. But it was easy to see the city that once was 100 years ago.

The streets were busy, crawling with people. Elders. Children. Families. But these clearly were not warriors. Besides the guards, none were wearing battle armour or carrying weapons. They were in plain clothes, pants and shirts, jackets and wraps. And they were clean, no marks or ink etched their skin. Nor did they have any sign of the thin hair braids of grounder warriors.

They were just people, not seen to be touched by war or despair.

Lexa had been truthful when she spoke of her home.

It was beautiful.

People turned to stare at her, those same whispers following her through the streets. Clarke did her best to ignore them, setting her jaw.

She passed what looked like a public market, stalls and street music singing out into the darkening sky, before being turned down a pathway lined with old statues and the remains of a fountain in the centre. Her two guards lead her to a large set of old wood doors, with two more grounders stationed outside.

Clarke's heart pitched tightly, knowing what lay beyond; or more specifically  _who_. She stole herself as they wordlessly opened the doors, leading Clarke inside a candlelit passageway that opened up into a large room with a throne in the centre toward the back of the space. A staircase looped up on both sides, leading to other areas of the two-story building behind a series of closed doors.

Her guards stayed by the opening to the passageway, Clarke looking back at them before approaching slowly until she was in the centre of the room, standing several feet away from the throne and the one sitting upon it.

Clarke expected to be met by familiar green eyes staring back at her, to feel the addictive brush of that gaze over her skin, as much as it would hurt to do so. But these eyes weren't those of her Commander, dark and unwavering.

This woman was not Lexa.

She stared back at Clarke from the oversized chair of branches and vines. She was closer to the age of her mother, with darker skin, and intricate tattoos that wove up her bare forearms, stopping when they reached her impressive armour.

Much like Lexa, her dark hair was in braids, but her head bore a crown made of twisted thorns, framing her strong cheekbones and jaw.

"Clarke of the Sky People." Her voice was smooth and stoic, filling the large space with a calm ease. "We meet at last."

"I'm sorry," Clarke muttered, breaking eye contact to look up at her surroundings, as she took a cautious step forward. "But, who are you?"

The woman gave a curt but amused smile. The right side of her head was shorn to a buzz, a braid lining the new hairline created in its wake. "My name is Dontania," she replied coolly. "And I am the Queen of the Trigeda. I believe you've met my Commander."

"Queen?" Clarke echoed.

"I've heard much about you, Clarke." Her voice was like ice, but wasn't without kindness, almost commanding. "Your legend truly precedes you. Though I imagined you'd be taller."

"I'm sorry, my legend?"

"Are you not Clarke of the Sky People?" she edged, feigned surprise colouring her tone. "The girl who fell from the sky. That can turn monsters back into men." She paused, her dark eyes roaming over Clarke. "And the girl that brought the Mountain to its knees."

Clarke was taken aback by the way the Queen spoke of her life. Like she assumed to know anything about her. She stole herself, hardening. "No offense to your legends," she gritted, bitter. "But I can assure you, the real story is quite different."

"Be that as it may, Clarke. While your actions may have all but ended the alliance my Commander had formed between the 12 clans, and her actions in turn may have very well ended the truce she so generously extended to your people," she said, matter-of-fact. "That is still to be told. But I do believe the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Until they are seen to be otherwise."

Clarke kept silent, shifting under the Queen's strong gaze. She relaxed in her chair. "So please," she implored, her tone lighter. "Join me for supper. We have much I'd like to discuss. A guard will show you to your room, where you can wash up and change into something more… appropriate."

Dontania looked Clarke up and down, a slight distaste marring her otherwise pleasant smile. Clarke looked down at her thick coat she'd removed from Lincoln's burrow and her mud covered boots. But she nodded, resisting the urge to scoff, and let the guard escort her from the room.

"And Clarke," Dontania called once she turned on her heel, Clarke glancing back at the Queen. "Welcome to Polis."

* * *

Torches lit the dark walls, their flames warming her skin as she shrugged off Lincoln's jacket and unbuckled her pants. She kicked off her boots, before brushing a hand over the thick furs that covered her bed, and the fresh clothes that had been lain out across it. There was a washtub in the corner filled with steaming water, and a tarnished full-length mirror propped against the wall to the far side.

Clarke forced back a shiver against the similarities of this scene and the one she woke to in Mount Weather when she was first welcomed by President Wallace. But she suppressed it, pushing it far from her mind as she picked up the small rag from the hot water and pressing it to her bare skin.

She felt deflated, her body heavy as she dragged the washcloth across the back of her neck. Clarke had expected to see those eyes, to face Lexa as soon as she had walked through those gates. But she now found herself losing her nerve. Wondering whether coming to Polis was foolish. The war was over. The danger was gone. And her people were safe. That should have been enough. Enough to leave her mind at easy, despite everything. But she couldn't let this one go. It all felt so unfinished. Like a melody cut short.

"Stupid," Clarke muttered to herself, tossing the cloth back into the water.

After she'd dressed in a rough leather jacket and dark pants, and a simple grey t-shirt, she slipped her own boots back on, and exited her room. A guard was waiting patiently outside her door. His weapon was sheathed, and his shoulders were relaxed. A guide. Not a guard. She had to believe that was true.

He wordlessly lead her back through the throne room, Clarke looking up at an iron chandelier that was chained to the tall ceiling, decorated with candles who's tiny flames licked light over the cold stone walls. Their orange glow cast shadows over the trees that framed the large chamber, their roots breaking through the tiled floor.

Everything about Polis was picturesque. Everything seemed to hold a level of beauty. A wonder Clarke had never seen before.

She shuffled to catch up as they crossed through one of the many doors into a long dining hall. A wooden table stretched the length of the room, covered in fruits and meats and dry breads.

But as Clarke surveyed the hall her skin went cold, and she faltered just inside the door.

Lexa was standing silently in a chair close to the Queen, her face fresh and her body stripped of armour. She was as breathtaking as Clarke remembered her. But Lexa didn't seem shocked by her presence, looking at her the way she always had, with a silent and stoic reverence.

Clarke's heart hammered beneath her jacket, feeling small under that gaze, another part of her flaring with an anger that she'd expected at finally seeing her again. It was maddening. Like her heart was waging war with her head.

"Please, sit," Dontania instructed, as Clarke approached them both. There were nearly a dozen grounders at the table, each seemingly more important than the next.

She took a seat opposite Lexa; the only one left.

As she sat, Clarke gazed around the room, trying her best to keep her eyes from the haunting green ones not three feet away. The ceiling in the hall was as high as the one in the throne room. The paint was long gone from the fixtures, replaced by a builded up of dust and grime that seemed to go synonymously with this new world. But it seemed the Trigeda welcomed it. Like they embraced the trees and vines that crept up the walls, bringing nature into their homes.

"The Commander tells me you knew my daughter." Dontania took a sip of local wine, gaining Clarke's attention from the ceiling. "That you fought by her side against the Mountain. And that I owe you her life."

Clarke's brow furrowed, her eyes darting to Lexa, uncertain. Lexa must have seen the confusion touching her features. "Anya," she provided, before taking a bite of her food.

Lexa's voice had the same affect that her gaze did, and a part of Clarke hated it. It sent her skin alight with fresh nerves. But she also welcomed it.

It was always both.

"Oh, yes," Clarke stammered, only now seeing the resemblance in the two women. In the high cheekbones and almond eyes. "I did, not well. But I did. We escaped the Mountain together before she died." Sadness seeped into her tone. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"I'm told she died well," Dontania intoned. "Which is all I can ask of my warriors."

Clarke was taken aback. She was still getting used to the detachment all grounders seemed to have toward their children, finding pride in them giving their lives for their people. It seemed so primitive, Clarke remembering the sentiment from history books, of stories told thousands of years before the bombs.

"She died trying to get a message to your Commander, which ultimately lead to the fall of Mount Weather, as you put it."

The truth of her words hit her full force. Of the lies. And the betrayal. Clarke took an uneasy breath, looking to Lexa. Her eyes were hard, but Clarke could see the telling emotions behind them. Like she always could. She could see the pain she had seen the night she walked away. From her people. From Clarke. And that thought alone almost made it hard for Clarke to keep herself even, her breath coming harder.

Dontania nodded in understanding, going back to her meal. Thoughtful and composed. Clarke took a sip of her own wine, keeping her eyes on her food. There were quiet conversations around the table between the other grounder leaders and dignitaries as they ate, reminding Clarke of the Council on the Ark.

Jaha, and Kane, and her mother had always dined in the mess hall together, away from prying eyes and sensitive ears. They always seemed so untouchable to Clarke as she was growing up. Like they knew all the world's secrets. Not knowing at the time that this was probably closer to the truth that she could have conceived. And now she was a part of it.

_We really aren't so different._

Her eyes moved back to Lexa. She was speaking softly with the man next to her. A man Clarke recognised from the war council. She didn't mean to stare. In fact she made a conscious effort not to, but Lexa must have felt Clarke's gaze. She paused her conversation, her eyes catching Clarke's and holding her there, like she always could.

Clarke refused to turn away; those eyes making her feel weak. Everything around her dimmed and disappeared from view. And if Clarke was honest with herself, it was what made her leave Lincoln's burrow. Those eyes had the ability to make her forget. Better than any cure of time.

"Clarke."

Dontania was watching her, her eyes switching between her Commander and Clarke, a cautious set to her mouth. "We have many proud traditions among my people. Festivals and mournings. After war, such as the one of Mount Weather, once our warriors return home, they receive a mark to their bodies, symbolising their bravery. Their fearlessness is inked onto their flesh for all their people to see.

"It also serves as a remembrance to those that were lost. A healing." Dontania was matter-of-fact, her voice sure and unwavering. "One such ceremony is in a few days time, a celebration of sorts. A time for warriors of war to show their marks. Everyone is welcome to attend. You of course, as our guest, would be no exception."

Clarke looked to Lexa on reflex. Even though she wasn't asking permission, the Commander gave her a tight nod. "You should come."

"It's settled then," Dontania remarked smoothly, not waiting for any inclination from Clarke.

Clarke was suddenly drawn to Dontania's hands, and the thin vine tattoos that snaked up her arms, wondering if she was ever a warrior before she became Queen. She caught her eyes. The look in them told Clarke the Queen knew what her mind was thinking.

"Not all our marks are of war, Clarke." She held up one of her hands, turning her wrist to show the extent of her ink. "Some are given when we ascend to a throne. To mark who we are to our people." Dontania's eyes strayed to Lexa, who was watching Clarke carefully. But Lexa's eyes turned away, an almost proud smile on the Queen's lips.

Clarke knew Lexa would be marked. Being the Commander. Though she had never seen them herself. The thought sent a shiver down her back, and a flush to her cheeks.

_Stupid._

_So so stupid._

After she'd finished eating, Clarke excused herself. She could see in Dontania's eyes, the want to touch on the subject of Mount Weather. But the Queen held her tongue. Another time, perhaps.

Clarke thanked her for her hospitality, turning in for the night, wanting to be alone. To close her bedroom door, and shut everything else out. But whether that alone included Lexa, she wasn't sure yet. She wasn't certain she was ready to face her. Even though that's what she came for. But she also wasn't sure she wanted to leave without saying something to her, the girl standing in her chair as Clarke moved to leave the room.

"You are welcome to stay in Polis as long as you desire," Dontania murmured. "A guard will see you back to your room."

"Thank you, Dontania."

The Queen nodded curtly, going back to her drink.

Clarke eyed her guard, her shadow, feeling like a prisoner, even though her better judgement told her it is just the way of the grounders. Protection for her while she was in the capital. But he didn't falter, moving swiftly from the hall, Clarke in tow.

She was crossing back through the throne room when she felt the familiar presence. Clarke turned to see those eyes. Lexa approached her guard, leaning in close and muttering something in Trigedasleng. He nodded stiffly before making his leave through the main doors, leaving the pair alone.

"This way." Her tone was clipped, her hands behind her back. Clarke watched her a moment before following.

The air was thick around them, Clarke hating the silence that now shadowed the pair. She took at a quick step to catch up to her, "Why did you never tell me about Dontania?"

"Would it have made a difference to the way you see us?" Lexa questioned, without moving her gaze from the dimly lit hall. "To the way you see me?"

"No, I..." Clarke stuttered, hating how her voice shook. "I just always assumed you were the leader of the Trigeda, is all." Clarke bit her lip, falling a step behind. She smiled against her better judgement. "Heda."

Lexa's back stiffened at the word, if only for a moment. "Like all the clans, we have a queen, or in some cases a king." They wandered further down the lit hall, turning a corner, torches guiding their way. "I am the Commander of her army, charged with keeping her people,  _my_  people, safe. It's my duty."

It was said almost as a bitter afterthought. Clarke's heart sank at her words, having the urge to reach out and touch her. The urge outweighed any residual anger she felt toward the girl. But she suppressed it, keeping her hands linked in front of her. The almost movement burning her.

They were outside her room now. Clarke opened the door, debating with herself. But she left it wide, giving the wordless invitation, suddenly not wanting her to leave just yet. Lexa took the hint and followed her in, shutting the door gently behind her.

Clarke sat on the edge of her bed, Lexa wandering further into the room, nearing the mirror and the dresser, her eyes roaming over everything but Clarke.

It was infuriating.

Clarke wanted to say something, anything to kill the silence. Now finding herself in front of her again, alone, she wasn't sure if she wanted to scream at her or breakdown. To ask for some kind of higher forgiveness. Or demand for her to seek her own. Or tell her she understood her choice all too well. To tell Lexa all she did to get here. All those lives, now nothing but a haunted memory.

But Lexa broke the silence before she could find the words. "Have you thought about how you wish to spend your time in Polis?"

"Umm, no," Clarke breathed, startled by the calm of her voice. "I-" She opened her mouth again to try and explain, something,  _anything_.

But Lexa cut her off, her voice still just as calm. "I can show you the rest of capital in the morning, if you like?" She was formal, a Commander, her back to Clarke and her eyes avoiding her in the shadowed reflection of the mirror.

"Sure," Clarke trailed off.

Lexa nodded and turned to leave, passing her on the way. She paused only a few feet from her, pain etched on her beautiful features. "Clarke, I'm-" Lexa hesitated then, her words strained. "I'm glad you're safe." She looked like she wanted to say more, but she held her tongue, those eyes now trained on Clarke for the first time since she'd entered the room. It was all Clarke could do not to breakdown, holding back her tears.

"Goodnight, Clarke."

"…goodnight."

It was said as a whisper that Lexa would never hear, the door closing with a gentle click before she could find her voice.


	2. Chapter 2

Clarke woke with a start. There was a sharp chill seeping in through the gap in the window, her furs falling to her waist. The warmth from the surrounding torches had all but burnt out, a shiver passing over her skin as she pulled the covers up.

She rolled over with a sigh. Part of her expected to wake to the cave walls, covered in charcoal and memories. To feel that ache of cold earth beneath her, and wake to the distinct feeling of being alone. She still felt alone. But the sunlight that broke through wooden slats of the window told her that she wasn’t in the safety of Lincoln’s burrow. And the distant sounds of a city alive told her she wasn’t in fact alone anymore. 

Clarke shut her eyes against it all, her mind going back over the previous night, over the feast, over Dontania and Polis. 

Over Lexa.

Clarke knew she should have said something, and not just let her walk away. She could feel all the unspoken words weighing on her chest, suffocating her. All the guilt of what she’d done had somewhat faded, Clarke coming to terms with what she had done in a world with no option. But this, this feeling, didn’t move or waver. It sat stagnate, just below the surface. 

Taking a breath Clarke sat up, slipping her boots on and grabbing the thick coat that hung by the door. Outside in the halls the air was fresh, a breeze stirring the loose leaves and dirt at her feet. Her guard, Kol, was nowhere to be seen. He’d usually be waiting just to the left, leaning against the wall. But the young warrior wasn’t at his post, the hallway completely deserted. 

Dismissing it, Clarke cautiously followed the narrow passageway until she hit the throne room. It looked much different in the morning light. Gone were the shadows, replaced by cool sunlight and the sounds of birds in the trees. It was bright, the morning streaming in through a break in the ceiling, the sky a solid blue. 

Guards were stationed at the exit and near the empty throne, but they didn’t touch her or move from their post. They stayed by the walls, their eyes straight. She didn’t expect to see Dontania, but the emptiness of the room seemed out of place, like Clarke shouldn’t be there, alone and without her shadow. She made tentative eye contact with the guards, walking through the front doors and out into blinding sunlight of the courtyard.

Lexa was waiting outside, sitting on the ledge of the fountain, her ankles crossed and her sword resting on her hip. Her shoulder guard was back on, but the rest of her was only a long coat and pants. The youthfulness of her still caught Clarke by surprise, her features not contorted or hardened by war. She was just a girl.

Lexa’s fingertips were playing with a leaf, the gesture innocent and absent in its movement. But she dropped it and stood when she noticed she had company. “Clarke,” she greeted, polite. “Sleep well?” 

“Fine. Thanks,” Clarke responded, somewhat distracted. “Have you been out here long?”

Lexa hesitated on the question, her mouth opening a little. She shifted uncomfortably, her eyes darting away, giving Clarke her answer. “And where’s Kol?” she added, indicating toward her room. “He wasn’t there when I woke up.”

Lexa still couldn’t make eye contact with Clarke. “He’s services were no longer required.” She stated it simply. Like it wasn’t a big deal to permanently dismiss her guard. Clarke let a small smile touch her lips despite everything, following after Lexa.

Polis was a 30-mile trek to the east of TonDC, toward the ocean. Clarke could smell it in the air, the damp earth replaced by a salted breeze. They passed through the high arch at the end of the path, opening out onto a busy street lined with markets. The smells of food and herbs scented the air, the sounds of bartering and loud conversation pulling her through each stall. Grounders crowded the paths between them. It was a sea of black and green, smoke and steam drifting up from every other tent that stood by the roadside.

Clarke’s eyes roamed over clothes and cooked meats and trinkets, each offering something different than the next. The normal whispers followed her, Clarke suddenly thankful she didn’t understand the hushed words. But it wasn’t out of her notice how almost everyone would turn and incline their head toward Lexa. She would nod in return, a soft pride on her lips. Clarke watched her in slight awe at the respect and love her people had for her. It was something she hadn’t quite witnessed until now. She’d seen it in TonDC and in the war camps. But those were warriors. They were made to obey. But these were just people, _her_ people. 

They loved her. Unequivocally.

Lexa looked back at Clarke every few moments, almost as if to check she was still there. Still real. That reverence was still on her features. Clarke swallowed roughly, looking away from those eyes. It was too much. The unspoken words still hung between them. Heavy and thick. And Clarke didn’t know if Lexa felt them too, or whether the weight was her own. If the burden had latched itself onto Lexa’s shoulders and heart and tongue. Whether it suffocated her, to the point of not being able to breathe. 

Like Clarke.

Lexa paused by a stall selling sweet breads and hot tea. She spoke softly to the elderly woman behind the counter, taking two small rolls from the basket in front of her. The woman bowed her head, her eyes crinkling and her smile evident. Lexa turned to Clarke once she’d thanked her, offering her one.

Clarke took it wordlessly. It was still warm, the bread heating her insides and treating her tongue. She could see the hint of a smile on Lexa’s lips, her eyes not quite meeting hers as Clarke followed her out of the markets and further toward the direction she remembered coming from the previous afternoon.

Guards saluted Lexa on their way to the gates, placing their right hands over their hearts and inclining their heads in respect. Lexa kept her eyes forward, acknowledging them in subtle ways. In a nod or a small movement of her hand. Clarke kept stride at her side, Lexa turning down a wide street just before they reached the gates.

It was lined with homes and woodwork shops and tailors and boot makers. The sounds of carving and hammering echoed off the walls of the surrounding buildings and into the morning air. Clarke tried to take it all in. It was everything she’d ever dreamed. She’d sketched these scenes in her cell on the Ark and on the walls of Lincoln’s burrow a hundred times over. 

“Is it true about the alliance between the clans?” Clarke asked. Lexa turned her head gently to show she was listening. “Dontania told me that what I did ended the coalition.”

“Dontania is nothing if not dramatic.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, Lexa.” She stopped reluctantly to look at Clarke, people passing them in the street. “Will the other clans attack you now that Mount Weather isn’t a threat?”

Lexa simply looked at her, giving Clarke all the answer she needed. It was written in the colour of her eyes and the subtle way she set her lips. The uncertainty. She could see the Commander in those eyes. The hardness. Years of war and a heartache that Clarke could only pretend to know.

And all too soon it was gone, a whisper of a smile softening her features. Like that hardness had been imagined. “Come, I want to show you something.”

Lexa guided her to a building just a few blocks north. It was falling apart like all the other buildings in Polis but there was something solid about it, its frame imposing against the morning sun.

They took the steps up to the front doors, _Poli S_ visible on a sign overhead. Clarke followed Lexa inside, pushing past the wooden doors. There were benches and tables and chairs, along with the trees and vegetation that she’d come to know. It was deserted, a chill coming off the cement walls. But Lexa bypassed the tables for a staircase that led down under the building. It was dark, it getting colder the further they went.

Clarke could see a flat barrel at the bottom with a fire pit, Lexa lighting a torch with it and motioning for her to follow. As she passes through an archway of floor to ceiling metal bars, Clarke started to see thousands of books lining the walls on wooden shelves. They were separated by what looked like old holding cells.

A police station.

The doors of the cells were long gone, creating alcoves and nooks that she felt she could get lost in for hours.

“It’s a library,” Clarke breathed. She ran her fingers over the closest shelf, her footfalls echoing off the basement walls. The covers were faded and peeling, and rough beneath her fingertips. “This is incredible. Where did you get them all?”

“Well, being on the ground for 100 years, you find things.”

Clarke glanced back at Lexa. The girl was smiling in her own way, her eyes distant against the flames of her torch. Clarke found herself missing those lips and that smile. Each time she had seen the subtle quirk it sent her heart racing, wanting to say or do anything to make it appear again.

But then she thought of the last time she’d seen those lips smile at her. And then what followed – the hesitant invitation, only for her to be left breathless and without. It had Clarke looking away, her eyes flicking over the extensive collection. “We had books on the Ark, but never this many.” She walked down the aisles, reading each title, moving away from Lexa. “We had to keep them in airtight cases so they didn’t degrade. Only taking them out for a few hours at a time.”

Lexa shrugged lightly, her hand resting on her sword hilt. “I find there’s a beauty in something not lasting forever. _Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again…”_

It was said absently. Thoughtful and quiet, the familiar words making Clarke pause. “The Iliad.” She looked at the girl in a slight awe, not having heard those words in years. Not since Wells and the Ark. “Homer?”

Lexa nodded. “You’re welcome to come and read whenever you like. You shouldn’t be bothered. My warriors are really the only ones who can read your language, and a few of our elders.”

“Seems such a waste,” Clarke said, soft, as if her words might disturb the moment.

“Even if my people can’t read them, their stories are still told by those who can.” Clarke smiled at that, having images of grounder children crowding around a campfire, listening to tales of warriors and healers and great cities they could only have dreamed of existing.

And love stories that defied all odds and prejudice.

That defied reason.

“We should keep going.” It was said after a silent minute; Clarke nodding and following Lexa up the stairs. She left the burning torch in the barrel, the pair heading back into the morning sunlight.

* * *

The sun was sitting higher in the sky by the time they’d settled near a small beach; it’s sand white and welcoming. Clarke leant her elbows against the wooden paling overlooking the water. Lexa stood at her side, her hands resting gently on the railing. 

The beach looked out on a bridge leading to farmland beyond the city limits. It was a long footbridge that stretched over an inlet of water, Clarke seeing crops in the distance. Grounders were tending to them, with an outpost and beyond that a high wall.

It was beautiful.

Children were playing a game with a long branch and a hard ball. They threw it between each other, one hitting it far up the stretch of sand. There was laughter and elated screams, and kids swimming in the water. It made Clarke realise just how much life had kept going while her people were still on the Ark. How wrong and naive they had been to not consider an alternative.

“I used to watch games like this with my family back on the Ark. Recordings from the ground. From before. We mostly knew how they ended, but it wasn’t the point.” She hesitated a moment, “Those were my favourite days. Just me and Wells, and our dads. Teasing each other and making bets. It made us forget, even for a moment, about our lives and the Ark. We were grounders in those moments. And the bombs never happened.” Clarke bit her lip, looking out over the water. “But those days are clearly long gone now. My dad. Wells.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Clarke edged, defeated at the memory. “The dead are gone, right?”

Lexa pursed her lips at Clarke’s words, at _her_ words. “You shouldn’t look at your past memories as if they’re something to regret.”

Clarke bristled. “And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” she said dryly, turning to look at her. Her stare was blank, Lexa’s words touching a nerve. “But then again, you don’t regret what you did to me and my people. Do you?”

“Clarke.”

It was said like a prayer. A hopeless prayer. Lexa knew the pain had come to the surface, her betrayal written all over her face.

“And I hate that I get it.”

It was said with an empty defeat. A pain. Clarke hated how her voice cracked on her words. She shook her head, pushing off from the railing, leaving the beach, and the children and the laughter. Leaving the innocence behind.

She took a deep breath, Clarke composing herself again as Lexa walked silently by her side. She wanted so much to say something, but every time she found the words, the ones to scold or absolve, they just fell flat before she could voice them. Because once they were out Clarke couldn’t take them back. All the hateful and guilt-ridden words she wished she could say, she couldn’t.

So she was left with snide and unaffected comments, and mere suggestion of how much Lexa had hurt her.

She was left feeling weak.

* * *

 

Walking past a small shop front, Clarke saw elders braiding the hair of a young girl around her age. It was intricate, all of it held together by metal rings and dark bands. The girl had a tattoo that snaked up her neck and framed her ear, it stark against her fair skin. Warrior braids.

Lexa stepped inside, greeting the women, all of them inclining their heads in respect. One made her way over to Clarke with a smile, her fingers reaching for her hair, speaking softly in Trigedasleng.

“What is she saying?”

Clarke didn’t pull away from the woman or her gentle touch, as much as it startled her. She had kind eyes, and a warmth about her, reminding Clarke of her grandmother. Or the little she remembered of her.

Lexa kept her eyes on the woman, “She says she would be honoured if you would let her braid your hair before the marking ceremony.”

“Oh,” Clarke breathed, taken aback. She smiled at the woman, not knowing how to respond.

“It’s customary.” Lexa continued. “She also says you have beautiful hair, like Nori.” Lexa smiled at that. “She was one of our most fearsome warriors, and the Commander before I ascended. She honours you with the comparison.”

Clarke couldn’t really find her words, fingers still combing gently through her hair. It was calming. “Tell her I’d be honoured, and thank you.”

Lexa spoke to her, the woman smiling and letting her hands fall to her sides. Her wide smile touched and wrinkled her eyes. She nodded once, before turning and going back to braiding the young girl’s hair.

“Heda! Heda!”

Clarke and Lexa both turned to see three girls not over the age of five come running up the steps. They were all carrying small yellow flowers, their little faces beaming up at Lexa.

They giggled, Lexa kneeling down and speaking to them softly. Clarke watched as she took the offered flowers, bringing the back of her fingers up to brush a cheek with a smile that just made Clarke ache. When she stood, the girls took off, disappearing into the crowded street.

Lexa handed her the small collection of flowers, Clarke taking them with a sad smile. “Looks like you’re not completely heartless after all, Commander.”

Lexa stiffened, but didn’t respond, the girls making their way down the shop steps. Clarke glanced at her. Lexa’s eyes were staring forward, her lips set in a hard line as they walked further past a harbour and toward the fishing docks.

“I still can’t believe you’re not their leader. They seem to love you. Look up to you.” She played absently with the petals, contemplative. “Almost as if Dontania has no control at all.”

Lexa nodded, taking a breath, “Dontania is their Queen. A politician. She’s more or less untouchable to them, unless she’s proceeding over a ceremony, or taking an audience. I guess you could say I’m the People’s Queen. Someone they can touch. Pour their hopes and dreams into.” Lexa took one of the flowers, her hands coming too close to Clarke’s, looking at her with that awe again.

Clarke swallowed harshly, looking away. Those eyes still burnt her skin, her tongue heavy with words that refused to pass her lips.

Words of pain and regret, of understanding.

Of love.

And as much as the betrayal of her almost love pained her, now more than ever Clarke understood. These were her people. And just like Clarke, Lexa would do anything to keep them safe. Even destroy herself and her own happiness.

They walked silently past what looked to be the barracks and the warriors’ quarters. Clarke could hear the sound of metal grinding against metal, and see the adjacent harbour laden with boats. Grounders were sitting around tables in conversation, and practicing archery and hand-to-hand, sparring with each other in the clearing between the buildings.

Clarke moved to the railing where boats were docked against a jetty, picking at the soft petals and letting them fall into the water. “So where do you live?”

She saw Lexa bite her lip, “You see that building?”

She pointed to a two-story building inside the gates of the barracks. It had a balcony that wrapped around the entire front of the second level, overlooking the harbour and out to sea. The metal railing was wrapped in vines. It was stark against the water; it’s foundations as large as a dropship.

Lexa was quiet.

“What, that whole building?” Clarke looked her, her eyes wide. Lexa merely nodded. “Wow. _Okay_ , Commander.” Clarke mock saluted her, bringing her hand down from her forehead.

And Lexa laughed.

It was like a breath, a release of air, and it hits her eyes. And Clarke was mesmerised. She’d never heard her laugh before. It was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard. Lexa looked out over the harbour, her hands clasped in front of her. And Clarke had to force herself to look away.

They both stayed quiet, Clarke smiling to herself and doing her best to hide it from Lexa. But Lexa straightened up next to her, her eyes on the barracks on the far side near the docks. “I’m sorry, but I’m needed at the church.”

“Church?” Clarke looked up to see a guard facing in their direction from the other bank. He had a hard look, his shoulders taut as he moved off.

“It’s where we go to settle disputes,” Lexa informed her gently. “Come, I’ll walk you back.”

Clarke dropped the flowers into the bay and followed Lexa down a nearby alleyway. “So tell me, how does a thousand warriors get marked in one day?”

Lexa smiled again, that perfect small smile that made Clarke’s chest ache for all the wrong reasons. “All my warriors are marked before the festival and are revealed during the ceremony. Only I will be marked during the proceedings. As their Commander my mark will be done publicly, marking the end of war and a moment of peace for my people.”

“Is this the only way you’re marked?” Clarke asked. “I mean besides when you ascended.”

“No.” Lexa shook her head gently, turning them onto a main street. “Each of us is marked when we are recognised by our people as a warrior, once we stop being a second, and are allowed to take on our own. I, however, never received that mark.”

“Why not?”

“I was Anya’s second when Nori was killed,” Lexa explained. “As Commander, you don’t get to take on a second. I was recognised as their leader, not as a fellow warrior, and I was marked as such.” She brought a hand up to her right bicep, “Here.”

They walked further down the street in silence, the sun beginning to set. Clarke could see the markets in the distance, still alive with music and exotic smells. “The Trigeda wear their marks with pride. It symbolises the wars they’ve survived.”

“You mustn’t have won many wars then,” Clarke said dryly, teasing.

“Why do say that?” Lexa glanced at her. “Because my marks are not visible, like Indra or Lincoln?” Clarke just raised her eyebrows in response. A challenge. “I can assure you, Clarke. I have won many wars.” She kept walking, the pair reaching the high arch of the Queen’s chambers. “Maybe one day you might just see how many.”

Clarke’s face flushed, her stomach pinching at Lexa’s words. It hurt, as if a trigger had been pulled. The playful banter. Her suggestive words. It was like there was no pain. But there was. She couldn’t pretend there wasn’t. She couldn’t pretend that they were who they used to be before she walked away.

The unspoken words hung heavier between them, suffocating her.

Being near Lexa was all of a sudden too much. She wanted to scream at her, but she knew it wouldn’t solve anything. But she couldn’t have her telling her things that suggested they were more. To see those eyes looking at her with that mix of awe and sadness.

They walked back down the pathway lined with statues, and around the fountain, stopping outside the doors. And by the time they came to stand still, Clarke’s throat was already tight with unsaid words and unshed tears.

“I’ll be back in the morning.” Lexa looked nervous and unsure of her words, making tentative eye contact. “There’s this inlet just beyond the walls-”

“Please don’t.”

“Clarke?”

Her abrupt words pulled Lexa up short, confusion tinging her green eyes.

“Please don’t come back in the morning.” She said it plainly and with as much confidence as she could. “Today was lovely, but I can’t keep pretending things are okay between us.” Clarke swallowed, feeling numb. “I just can’t.”

“Okay?”

Lexa’s brow knitted together, her eyes hitting the pavers at her feet. Clarke turned on her heel. She reached for the door, gripping it tightly before the next words pulled her up, her hand stilling.

“I tried to find you. After everything.” Clarke turned back. Lexa swallowed hard, her eyes not looking at Clarke. “I did.” She nodded to herself, before those eyes flicked up. They were full of something Clarke had only seen once before, in a tent with her back pressed tightly against a table and only inches separating them. “And I did, by the river two weeks after I…” she paused, setting her jaw. “Word had passed through the villages of what happened at Mount Weather, and I had to find you. And I did. And that was enough for me. To see your face again. I knew you’d no sooner kill me than want me there. So I left.”

“Yeah, you left. You’re good at that,” Clarke spat, wiping away an angry tear, cursing herself for letting it fall.

“Fuck.” She let the word whisper past her lips, like a tired breath. She blinked back, more threatening to fall. “That’s great, Lexa. That’s great that seeing me was enough for you. That seeing me was enough to rid you of your guilt. But I needed you, and you walked away. Do you have any idea what I-” Clarke shook her head and pursed her lips. “Forget it.”

Lexa set her jaw again, her eyes cast down and her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. “It was never my intention to hurt you, Clarke.”

“It’s a little late for that, Lexa.” Clarke just shook her head. “I get it. I understand why you did it. But I don’t have to like it.” Clarke turned her back on her, opening the door.

“What would you have me do?” It was desperate, Lexa’s voice betraying her. Clarke had never heard that voice, the girl always so sure and unwavering.

“I don’t know.” And she didn’t. She was at a complete loss. “…I don’t know.”

She closed the door behind her without looking back, leaving Lexa stone-faced by the fountain, still gripping her sword. She felt empty. Her words were gone, and the weight was lifted. But she didn’t feel any lighter. She felt like screaming.

“Clarke.”

The calm voice startled her, Dontania lounging on her throne. She was out of her armour, only donning a light jacket, “Dontania.”

She wiped at her eyes, attempting to compose herself in front of the Queen.

“Enjoy your outing?”

Clarke nodded, “Your home is very beautiful.” She smiled as best she could, moving in the direction of her room, but she was stopped by the Queen’s next words.

“I had a son.”

Clarke paused. “But I suppose you wouldn’t know that.” She didn’t say it coldly. She was only stating mere fact. “He was a fierce warrior and protector of my people. And just like Anya, he had a second. He swore to protect this girl against any enemy. He swore a blood oath, much like Gustus did to Lexa. And he died protecting her, honouring the oath he swore.”

The Queen was regal with her words, almost to a fault. But she hesitated. “Her name was Costia.” Clarke froze. “By your expression, I take it you know the name. She wasn’t the only one the Ice Queen took from us that day. My son.”

Clarke could almost see her waver, before she controlled her tongue. “Now I do believe that if my warriors must die, they should at least die well. And he did. By Costia’s side."

“I’m sorry, Dontania,” Clarke edged, sincere. “But why are you telling me this?”

“Lexa is like a daughter to me. I watched her grow up, as if she were my own. And the only time I’ve ever seen her look at someone the way she looks at you, was when my boy was alive. When she was Costia’s.”

Dontania shifted in her chair, and Clarke couldn’t breathe. “There are many ways a parent can lose a child, Clarke. Through war and death. Through heartbreak and loss.” She looked at her a moment, those dark eyes doing little to hide her emotions. “Don’t have me lose another child. I already lost her once.”

Clarke caught herself, “What are you telling me to do, Dontania? Don’t break her heart?” Her voice cracked on the word, her own emotions getting the better of her. “Because I think she’s done _more_ than enough of that for both us.”

Clarke had to steal herself, her tears threatening to fall again.

“I’m not telling you to do anything, Clarke,” she said simply. “I’m _asking_ that you be careful. Not as a Queen, but as a mother.”

Clarke stayed silent. Because what does one say to that? How does someone respond when they’re told something so personal? No apology could heal those wounds. And no empathetic reasoning could either. She felt as if the weight she lifted with Lexa had just been put back on by the Queen.

And it hurt, for a whole different reason.

Clarke didn’t remember how she got back to her room. Or how she ended up with her back against her door.

All she remembered was letting her tears finally fall.


	3. Chapter 3

When Clarke woke the next day she knew she wasn't in Lincoln's burrow. She didn't expect to feel cold earth and solace in the cave walls. In the charcoal and paint and the images of life etched into rock. And she knew she wasn't alone. She didn't expect to hear the hollow and empty echo, or the wind tunnelling through the tight passageways. Or the silence and peace that came with the birds, and the distant sounds of the river.

She was in Polis. She was surrounded by stone and wood and burning flame. Sounds and voices crept in through the slats of her window, stirring her as she combed fingers through warm furs. Her nose was met with the smells of the nearby marketplace, and her eyes with the blinding sunlight.

She contemplated staying in her room, shutting the door and blocking everyone out. But her room was cold. And empty. And she was alone. And even after last night, that was the one thing she didn't want to be.

It was some time before she'd picked herself up off the floor of her room and moved to the bed. Her back ached from leaning against the door. And her face felt swollen and puffy from tears. She didn't expect them to come so suddenly after her door shut behind her. To feel the sudden and overwhelming grief that engulfed her, racking her body. But she let them fall, the weight lifting with each wave of tears.

Clarke couldn't remember a time in the last two months, since she'd left the camp and her friends and family, that she'd let her emotions get the best of her. They fell for what felt like hours, for Finn, and Mount Weather, and TonDC. For her people. For Lexa.

She didn't come back.

Clarke didn't expect her to, nor did she expect to see Dontania as she stepped into the throne room. The guards were still there, like statues, the grips on their spears like steel and their eyes following her every move.

She walked past the broken fountain, still seeing Lexa's expression when she'd slammed the door, her eyes like glass and her hand grasping her sword. Guarded. It was the reason Clarke had held so tightly to her words. Those eyes and those lips, etched in pain. It sent her head and her heart at war with each other again, wanting and never wanting to see that expression laden on her slight features.

The skies were clear. Clarke pulled her thick coat closer around her against the crisp morning air, retracing her steps to the front gates. Her boots crunched the loose gravel as warriors started arriving for the festival, camping just outside the city walls.

The heavy steel gates were open when she passed, grounder warriors flowing through them like a constant stream. She could see the sea of tents beyond the road, reminding her of the war camp at the bottom of the mountain. But she knew only the Trigeda would be beyond the wall, their armour distinct against those of the neighbouring clans. And now the possible enemy.

Clarke turned down the street just before the gates, filled with boot makers and tailors and wood shops. Hammering and the high keen of metal drifted through the crowd, Clarke hearing the constant babble of Trigedasleng from the camps behind the adjacent wall.

Warriors stared at her as she passed, but they didn't approach, their eyes always cautious. But elders nodded, bowing their heads, almost in respect. It was unnerving, Clarke dismissing the gesture and walking further up the road, taking the steps to the library two at a time.

And then she was alone, just as Lexa said she would be.

She descended into the dark basement. The morning light provided limited guidance as Clarke retrieved a torch from the flat barrel at the bottom of the staircase. Its flames licked orange over the crumbling spines that sat neatly in their shelves. She didn't recognise any pattern or order to the books, walking slowly past each section, her eyes scanning the titles.

Clarke stepped through one of the holding cells toward the back filled with classic novels she remember reading on the Ark. Jane Austen and Emily Bronte. Hemingway. Her free hand grazed over a copy of  _Pride and Prejudice_ , the paper so dry and brittle Clarke thought it may crumble under her touch.

She pulled it free of its shelf. She remembered reading it in school. Remembered thinking how things seemed so simple back then; balls, courting, and innocent love. Where the touch of a hand was enough to show affection and intention. There was no manipulative Queens, or infuriating Commanders who held the heart of Elizabeth. She didn't have to worry about anything beyond the stubbornness of her own future husband. She had no war to win, or a world of impossible decisions, or weight of a whole people.

They were simple decisions. Marry. Don't marry. Have children. Don't have children.

"Simple," Clarke huffed, placing the book back on the shelf.

She chose instead a copy of a novel without a cover, its paper stained and worn with age. Leaving the torch in the barrel, Clarke walked back up the steps. She took a seat in the far corner, letting the sun warm her skin and letting her mind be lost to a world beyond her own. Beyond Lexa and Polis. Beyond her mind thinking over and over the words she'd let slip and all the words she wished she could say, the ones she was too scared to say, losing herself instead to the words on the written page.

* * *

Clarke stayed in the library until the sun was high in the sky, moving from morning to afternoon. She knew if she kept walking further up the street she would reach the water, and the beach and the farmlands beyond. But she slowed her pace, her eyes on a solid building, its foundations completely intact.

It's windows and doors and roof were hollowed out, but what caught her eye were the colours. Bright greens and blues and reds assaulted the grey concrete of the walls, with images of life and war, of stories. She took to the steps, her eyes wide at the sketches covering every surface of the building.

When she reached the arched entrance an elderly man was sitting on the cold floor, his legs crossed and his hands shading one of the pictures. It was of a waterfall and a lake, so real that Clarke felt she could almost hear the sound of the water. The man's fingers were stained with charcoal, and his hair was a wisp of white.

Clarke approached him cautiously. He must have known she was there, his eyes not surprised when he turned his head before inclining it. "You are the one they call Clarke, no?"

Clarke smiled, and nodded gently. "What is this place?"

"It's where people come to tell stories." The man's eyes were on the walls, his voice like rough stone. "Elders. Warriors. It's a place of reflection and peace."

"It's beautiful."

He smiled. The movement creased his face, showing the deep lines upon it. "You draw?"

Clarke nodded.

"Maybe one day we may see your life on these walls, Clarke of the Sky People."

And Clarke couldn't speak. It was the second time that day that an elder had suggested she was anything more than their enemy. She knew she wasn't a threat to these people. But they didn't. Yet she felt like they trusted her beyond just mere courtesy.

"What happens when it rains?"

Clarke indicated toward the rafters and to the sunlight streaming in. But the man didn't turn or move as he spoke, "Then the memories wash away, and we start again. We breathe new life into the walls and tell new stories." He's voice was wise and kind. "We accept that the past is the past, and that it cannot be changed."

"And then what?"

"And then we move on."

The man kept his eyes on his work as a silence settled over them. Clarke moved to sit next to his sketch, leaning her back against the hard brick. The man didn't seem to mind, smiling at her again and continuing to shade, his fingers smudging charcoal over the brick.

Clarke's eyes roamed the walls, seeing a world she scarcely knew. The drawings held so much detail, Clarke almost being able to hear the stories they each told. Of warriors and cities. Of vast oceans and the creatures they hid. It was beautiful, like so much of this new world.

And it was there, among the stories of a hundred years of war and life, that Clarke finally felt a small piece of home. For the first time since she'd left the Ark, left her dad and Wells. And left the memory of the mother she knew before she lost everything to the lie that had her sent to the ground. The walls and the old man's words had brought a sense of clarity and comfort that no amount of time had brought. She felt safe.

He had later told her that his sketch was an image from his most peaceful memory, before the war of Mount Weather, of a lake outside his village when he was a boy. Clarke had watched on as the deep lines on his face settled and his eyes closed, his lips telling the story of the cool water and the sunlight. Of the innocence he once knew, of a time before war.

Clarke could have stayed in his presence for the rest of the day. But the sun was beginning to set and more elders had begun to arrive, charcoal in hand. He was still cross-legged in front of his sketch when she left, his eyes closed and his face peaceful. Clarke didn't disturb him, walking further up the street toward the beach.

But before she could reach the sand, Clarke turned down a section that Lexa hadn't shown her the day before. It led into the heart of the city, the streets growing more crowded the further she walked. The buildings were closer together, towering over her and blocking out the sky. There were dining halls and healers and jewellery makers lining the roadside. Raised voices and laughter spilled out of one of the more crowded buildings, the strong smell of a distillery wafting into the cool afternoon air. A grounder warrior stumbled down the steps to her left, leaning against the brick wall outside. His hulking frame slumped to the ground, a wide grin on his face as two more came calling after him.

Clarke smiled at the sight as she let her legs carry her further up the street, the pavers opening out into a fork in the road. Nestled on the crest of a hill in front of her was the large church with peaked roofs and a large circular glass window, cracked and missing shards. It was surrounded by high-rise buildings and paved alleyways, the setting sun turning the grey stone a deep orange, reflecting off the clouded glass.

It was cold when Clarke entered, the torches hanging from the walls doing little to provide any warmth. Rows upon rows of wooden benches took up the entire tiled floor with a throne of twisted branches and swords toward the back of the church.

Clarke only faltered a moment when she noticed Lexa.

The girl's long fingers were worrying her brow, her eyes cast down. But she looked up at the sound of footsteps, surprise colouring her features. "Clarke."

Lexa stood from the large throne, her hand automatically going to the hilt of her sword.

"Lexa," Clarke replied curtly, taking a seat in the front row of benches. She knew she couldn't leave the conversation. And a part of Clarke knew there was nothing Lexa could do to gain her forgiveness.

They were at an impasse.

She watched as Lexa cautiously approached, sitting down next to her.

"Did you have a dispute to settle?"

"Something like that," Lexa offered, her eyes forward. Her voice was thoughtful, silence following her words. They sat, listening to the wind rustle the loose leaves at their feet and tunnel through the church. But after a moment she broke it. "If I was to say sorry-"

"Please don't," Clarke cut in, not wanting to hear those words leave her lips. "You have nothing to apologise for. You did what was best for your people. I get that." She took a breath, steeling herself for what she was about to say, for what she was scared to say. "…I was falling for you, without even knowing or wanting to-"

"You were?" Lexa sounded hopeful.

"Don't be cute."

Clarke could sense the smallest of smiles playing on her lips.

"You told me love was weakness, and I listened. But then you kissed me and I started to believe that life could be about more than just surviving. And it turns out I listened to your actions louder than your words." Clarke was looking at the broken pavers beneath her feet. "It was a stupid mistake, and it shouldn't have happened."

She felt Lexa shift closer, "It wasn't stupid. Or a mistake."

Clarke had to take a breath, their proximity and that voice making her heart race beneath her thick jacket. "I don't regret anything I've done, Clarke. Kissing you. Leaving you. I wish I could tell you that if I had the chance to go back and stay, that I would. But my people will always come first."

Clarke just nodded, her hands gripping the bench tightly.

"But I am sorry that it ended the way it did. That the duty to protect my people caused you pain." Lexa paused, taking an uneasy breath. "And I'm sorry I walked away. The second time."

"Me, too," Clarke breathed. "But you were right. I would have killed you."

Lexa laughed softly, nodding to herself. Clarke felt the tension that separated them slowly dissipate until it was just the two of them. The pain was still there, and the hurt. That was a scar Clarke didn't think would heal any time soon. But the weight was gone, and the suffocating words had left her.

"Ironic, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"Before the bombs they used to use these buildings for absolution. People would sit in these tiny boxes, and a man would sit next them and absolve them of all their sins. Believing that an all-seeing God was listening," she told her, a humourless laugh on her tongue. "They called it confessional."

Lexa smiled, clearly seeing the irony in their conversation. "I've read about religion. Of the wars it started. And the hate it spread. The society before this one was so…foolish."

"You believe in reincarnation. Is it really such a stretch?"

Lexa shrugged; a small lift of her shoulders. "You never did tell me how your leaders are chosen."

"By a vote," Clarke laughed. "Though not all voices are heard equally. It has its flaws."

Lexa nodded gently, before glancing at her. "Not you though."

"I don't know how it happened. People just started listening to me. Guess they figured I knew what I was doing or something. Truth is I was just as scared as the rest of them. I honestly don't know how you and Dontania do it."

"We do what we must." The look on Lexa's face was contemplative, but there was a tinge of sadness just below the surface. Her eyes weren't looking at Clarke, her stare far off.

"That woman's a manipulative bitch, by the way," Clarke remarked.

Lexa laughed. It wasn't a sound Clarke thought she'd ever get used to, nor did she ever want to. "She's a queen, what were you expecting?"

Clarke hesitated. "…she told me about Costia and her son."

"Donte," Lexa provided. "He was a good warrior. He would have done anything for Costia. And did." She swallowed hard, "I've found solace in that. That she didn't die alone."

Clarke could see her eyes turn to glass and her lips set in a hard line. An ache flooded Clarke's chest not related to her own pain. She nudged Lexa with her shoulder, only inches separating them now. "Careful, Commander. You're weakness is showing."

Lexa smiled sadly, still not looking at her. "I've come to accept that."

"Accept what?" Clarke asked, confused. Her eyes searched Lexa's features, those lips still pressed together.

"That a part of me, no matter how hard I try to fight it, will always be weak." Her voice was soft. Small. And then Lexa looked at her with that reverence and for once it didn't hurt to see those eyes, Clarke not turning away. "Especially when it comes to you."

"Lexa." It was a breathless whisper, Clarke feeling weightless under that gaze.

But then Lexa stood, her voice still small as she fought for control of it, like she didn't just bare herself. "I have to go welcome my warriors that are arriving for the ceremony."

"Okay."

Clarke barely had a time to catch the breath that Lexa had just taken from her. She hated that she sounded disappointed, suddenly not wanting to see Lexa leave; feeling like the quiet moment they'd shared had been ripped away.

Lexa shifted, "Would you like to join me?"

Clarke's heart beat in her throat, a genuine smile stretching across her face. She tried to suppress it but she knew Lexa had caught it, her own lips quirking gently.

"Lead the way, Commander."

* * *

Clarke was sitting on a small wooden stool as two sets of hands combed through her hair. It was calming more than anything. She watched the two women in the reflection of the tarnished mirror that sat against the wall. They were weaving thin vines through each braid, soft and green like wildflowers. Lexa had told her it was customary for the marking ceremonies, the vines symbolising life and rebirth. Each was held together by a small metal band, the thin braids lining each side of her head.

The rest of her hair crested and was left to fall over her shoulders, framing her face. It was a look that Clarke was slowly getting used to, turning her head to see the intricate detail.

Lexa had dropped her off earlier that morning. She was only donning a light coat and her sword when she'd left, wandering off in the direction of the gates. She'd given Clarke a smile before she did, those heartbreakingly perfect lips pulling at the corners. Clarke had done her best not to stare as she'd taken her seat in front of the women. But ever since the weight had eased somewhat it was getting harder for her to hide the affect the girl had on her.

She'd stayed by Lexa's side the afternoon before, the Commander walking through the sea of tents that spread out in front of the capital. Each of her warriors had bowed their heads in respect as she'd approached, the girl acknowledging them with a nod of her head or even grasping their forearm in some cases. It was a surprising sight, and a gesture Clarke hadn't ever seen her do.

Clarke knew not to expect Lincoln as they walked through each section. She knew he'd made his choice the day he'd decided to defy his commander. He chose Octavia. He made the choice that Lexa did not; the one she could not. But it didn't stop Clarke's eyes from seeking out his, a small hopeless part of her still holding on to the possibility.

But those dark eyes weren't among the tents and the trees. And Clarke knew she'd be waiting a long time before she saw them again.

Clarke shifted in her seat. She watched the woman behind her, those kind eyes always meeting Clarke's in the mirror. But then she looked to her fingers and to the familiar braids pressing firmly to the sides of her head. "Aren't these only meant for your warriors?"

The woman smiled warmly, speaking softly in Trigedasleng. Clarke continued to watch her in the clouded reflection. It was a moment before she spoke again. "…you  _are_  a warrior." It was stated simply, her fingers combing through her hair. "My son is alive because of you. He was taken by the Mountain many moons ago. The Reapers came into his village, leaving only a few."

"I think you have your commander to thank for that." Clarke gave her a smile, trying to brush off the mix of sadness that was wreaking havoc beneath the surface at the suggestion.

"I have full faith in my commander. I believe she'll keep us safe against any enemy, just like Nori before her. But she wouldn't have even been able to open the door if not for you. You saved us as much as the Commander did."

Clarke caught the woman's eye and she couldn't speak, or find words. She reached up a hand, running her fingers over the thin braids. "They're beautiful, thank you."

Clarke swallowed hard, her throat tight. The woman inclined her head, tying a metal band over the last of the long braids just as there was a light knock at the door. All three of them shifted their eyes, Lexa leaning gently against the doorframe. Clarke had to catch her breath. Lexa's shoulder guard was back on, but the long veil had been changed from red to green for the ceremony.

And those eyes.

They were shaded in darkness again, long black streaks running down her cheeks. But she was still Lexa beneath it all, her face relaxed.

"Trigeda suits you."

Clarke's face flushed as she cleared her throat, her hands touching her braids again. "Thanks," she said, her voice tight.

Clarke stood from the small stool and paced to the wall, letting Lexa sit down. The women slowly began to release her hair from its bands, Clarke seeing it for the first time out of its braids. It was wild and untamed, falling in cascades over her shoulders.

She was beautiful.

Clarke couldn't help but stare as she watched them, leaning against the wall in front of Lexa. Watched the careful detail of the new braids, and those green eyes that had turned soft in the afternoon sun, shrouded by warpaint.

And those lips.

"Clarke?"

Lexa was looking at her, eyebrows raised.

Clarke's face flushed again, the blood rushing lower to her neck as she straightened up. "Yes, Commander?"

But Lexa just continued to look at her, not saying a word. Out of the corner of her eye Clarke saw the old women drop their gaze, the hint of a smile touching their lips as they continued to braid their commander's hair.

It was afternoon, Clarke guessing 2 o'clock by the sun, when the women finished threading the last wildflower stem through Lexa's hair. She'd thanked them both, leading the way down a quiet street that joined up with the main square. There were only a few grounders still not at the festival, elders and children walking slowly in the same direction.

As Lexa turned them both down a narrow street, Clarke could begin to hear the sounds of drums and the cheers of a growing crowd. It was getting louder the further they went, butterflies hitting Clarke's stomach.

"Should I be nervous?"

"I wouldn't think so," Lexa murmured. Her tone was teasing, making Clarke look at her. "After all, you're not the one that is having bone fragments shoved into her back repeatedly."

"That sounds like a enjoyable afternoon."

"It is, actually," Lexa countered.

"I'll have to take your word for…"

Clarke didn't finish her sentence, her words trailing off. On the other side of the street, a group of four girls around their age were giggling and staring at them as they walked by. They were all wearing flowing robes, and beautiful intricate braids. They were whispering to each other in Trigedasleng, one even smirking at Lexa as she got closer.

Lexa smiled a ghost of a smirk back at them, and inclined her head in their direction. The girls blushed, turning and hurrying up the street ahead of them.

Clarke stared at them with a quirked eyebrow, waiting until they were out of earshot. "What was that all about?"

Lexa shrugged lightly, "I'm not entirely sure of the word in your culture."

"Try me."

She glanced at Clarke a moment, and was silent for longer than that. "You might call them admirers, I suppose."

"Oh," she breathed, her eyes going wide with realisation. "Of course."

Clarke hated the pang of jealousy that ran over her skin and settled beneath her chest, her eyes firmly on the four girls ahead of them.

_Stupid._

"Does that bother you?" 

"Don't flatter yourself, Commander."

But Lexa smirked again and walked further up the narrow street, leaving Clarke a step behind.

_So stupid._

* * *

It was drawing in on dusk. Clarke was sitting with her back pressed tightly to her chair, her eyes on the crowded square. Dontania was seated next to her, the surrounding rows lined with war chiefs and other dignitaries, all of them watching the festival from a raised platform. The Queen had been commenting on the proceedings for Clarke's benefit, telling her the whats and whys of what was happening. But mostly Clarke tuned her out, keeping her attention on the festival and the inked skin of the Trigeda warriors in front of her.

Clarke had been more than a little surprised when a familiar set of dark eyes had approached her earlier in the night. Indra still didn't fail to send a chill down her back, the woman's stare lethal and unwavering.

"Good to see you alive."

"Is it?" Clarke had raised her eyebrows at the woman.

"I was being polite." Her tone was dry, Indra's attention on the festival.

Clarke had laughed humourlessly, "It's nice to see you too, Indra."

"Is it?" she'd countered.

"I was being polite."

Indra had smirked at that, nodding at Clarke, a level of understanding passing between them. She'd moved off, taking her seat on the other side of Dontania, her grasp firmly on her sword.

The crowd was getting thicker as grounder warriors started joining their families and friends from the middle of the square, and the sky was growing darker.

"It is almost time."

"For?" Clarke said tightly, not looking at Dontania.

"The Commander will be here soon," Dontania stated. "Once the others have moved on she will receive her mark."

Clarke nodded, out of courtesy if anything else. She'd already seen the reveal of the warrior marks, all of them with bare skin against the cold. Clarke realised none of them cared much for modesty, as comfortable in their skin as if they were wearing armour. The large fire in the centre of the square would have provided little warmth, but there was no sign of discomfort. If anything they welcomed it.

Most of the ceremony had been lost on Clarke. There was dancing and drums and flame. Each warrior had passed in front of Dontania, each standing proud, their right hand over their hearts. But Clarke couldn't stop looking at the marks on their skin. Some were simple, a band around their arm, or a spike that ran up their neck. But others held so much intricacy, vines and branches stretching over their backs, spiral like shields cover whole shoulders. It was an art form as much as it was about pride and honour; Clarke again wondering what kind marked Lexa's skin.

The warriors had all but moved off from the square, weaving through to join the crowd. The drumming had continued as people chanted into the night air, Clarke seeing a sea of green and black by the orange light of the torches and the bonfire.

"Braids suit you, Clarke."

"Thanks," Clarke accepted reluctantly. "Your commander insisted it was customary."

"It is," Dontania agreed. "I take it this means you two have buried the hatchet, as your people would say." She kept her eyes forward, looking at the ceremony and the crowded square. "Or should I expect another scene outside my chambers?"

Clarke bristled, shifting in her chair. "You might be Lexa's queen, but you're not mine, Dontania." Clarke kept her eyes on the proceedings. "So excuse me when I tell you that if there ever was a hatchet, that you wouldn't have a say when or with who I bury it." She glanced at the Queen, her teeth gritted before adding, "Your Highness."

Clarke expected a lot of things from the Queen. Hostility. Distain. But not a smile. "I can see why the Sky People elected you."

"I was never elected," Clarke bit back, glaring at her. "I never chose this."

"None of us ever do."

Dontania merely looked at her, those eyes demanding her attention. But after a tense moment she started to clap, Clarke breaking to look back at the square just as Lexa came into view.

Cheers of  _Heda_ roared into the darkened sky, over and over again. The sound vibrated the ground. Clarke watched on as Lexa walked purposeful to the centre of the square where two men waited. One of them helped Lexa out of her shoulder guard and her coat, her torso now completely exposed. Doing so showed Clarke the tattoos that covered her skin, and she had to catch her breath.

Black ink swirled over her back and down her right arm. They appeared like spiked wings that surrounded strange symbols that ran down her spine every few inches. It was incredible. Every spike was sharp like a razor, and curved. But the band on her arm differed from the ink on her back, like she received that mark before any of her others.

Lexa sat down on a small chair, the tall rest pressing against her front. Her chest was bare except for a narrow wrap that covered her more intimate areas. From where Clarke was sitting she could just see her shoulder and the side of her face. It was neutral, relaxed, those lips set in a firm line.

Once Lexa had taken her seat the other man sat behind her on a small stool. He was brandishing a white tipped rake and a long stick, his assistant placing a wooden bowl of what looked to be dark ink at his feet.

Clarke shifted uncomfortably in her chair as the crowd continued to cheer, watching as the assistant stretched out a patch of skin on her shoulder, the other man bringing down the rake on her skin and drawing blood. It left behind ink, it seeping into Lexa's skin. Clarke could see Lexa wince every now and again. But other than the contorting of her features she didn't show any other sign of discomfort of having her skin punctured, over and over. She was strong, Clarke being reminded of when she'd dislocated her shoulder a few months before.

It took close to two hours for the man to completely the pattern. It was a flowing continuation of the rest of her mark, a new spike licking over her shoulder and touching her collarbone.

It wasn't long before a feast started, once Lexa had stood and moved off. People had cleared from the square, now crowding the city and into the streets of Polis. Drink was flowing, and meats and breads and fruits were in abundance.

The music continued, the drumming melding with the constant chatter of Trigedasleng. Clarke had noticed after her second plate of food that Lexa was nowhere to be seen. She hadn't re-joined their table with Dontania and Indra and the other war chiefs. She'd been sitting by her side for a time, taking her leave to speak with some of her warriors. But now that she looked, Clarke couldn't see that familiar warpaint among the crowd.

Standing from their table, Clarke bid goodnight to Dontania and Indra. The Queen had a knowing look in her eyes. But Clarke ignored her, keeping her features neutral to the Queen, before weaving through the crowd and heading for the harbour.

Clarke didn't know why it was the first place she decided to look or why she was even looking in the first place. Why she didn't just stay at the feast and return to Dontania's chambers later in the night, alone. But as she neared the barracks, she could see the soft glowing coming from that second floor balcony close to the waters edge, letting her legs continue to carry her.

Warriors were already drunk and stumbling between buildings and sitting around tables as she walked through the alleyways that led to the Commander's quarters. They didn't pay her any mind, too consumed with their drink and their conversation.

The doors to Lexa's home were open, light seeping out into the darkened street. Clarke entered without knocking and into a living area filled with couches and tables and chairs. And weapons, endless weapons. There were canvas' hanging from the walls, with a kitchen to one corner. It was amazing. And warm.

Clarke could hear voices, soft and in Trigedasleng coming down the staircase to her left. They creaked as she neared the top, announcing her presence to Lexa and a woman with her back to her. Lexa was only in her cloth wrap and plain dark pants. But she didn't cover up when she noticed Clarke, staying bare. Like she didn't see the need, or the want.

As Clarke neared them both she saw that the woman was a healer, Lexa leaning her hands against a nearby table as she tended to the new mark.

"Leave us."

The healer nodded and walked down the stairs, passing Clarke without a word.

"Do you mind?" Lexa indicated towards a jar of ointment resting on the table.

Clarke wordlessly took the last few steps, not being able to take her eyes off Lexa's tattoos. Or her muscles that rippled over her stomach and back, taut and perfect.

"Sure," she murmured as an afterthought, already washing her hands with alcohol.

Clarke dipped her fingers into the ointment, gently spreading it over the tattoo. It was smooth with an earthy smell, it covering the new mark evenly. After she was done, Clark wiped her hands on a nearby rag, but she couldn't help but keep her hands on Lexa.

Lexa's skin was warm to her touch. She could see that she was a little nervous. Clarke could feel it under her fingertips as her eyes roamed over her skin. She had so many scars. Clarke ran her fingers over them, Lexa shivering. Each scar seemed to tell a story, of a battle fought and won. Or lost. Some of them looked deep.

Clarke brushed her fingertips over Lexa's kill marks that stood jagged against her shoulder. "Why so few?" Clarke asked. "I've seen you kill more than half of these."

"As Commander, I've lost count." A sadness tinged her voice. "Commanders aren't marked in that way for this reason. Those marks were given to me when I was Anya's second."

There were still so many for how old she was when she ascended. Clarke smiled sadly; nodding even though she knew Lexa couldn't see the gesture.

She moved her fingertips to Lexa's tattoos, looking at the detailed ink that took up her entire back. They were even more beautiful up close. But there was a mark that seemed out of place, catching Clarke's eye. It was of an eight-point star in the middle of her upper back. It looked fresh, the ink darker than the other marks.

"What's this one?"

She shivered as Clarke's fingertips brushed the mark.

Lexa didn't answer right away. "It's yours."

Her voice was small but sure, a thick silence following her words. Clarke was taken aback. "I-I thought you could only be marked as a sign of battles won, or as a Commander or a Queen, or a warrior."

She was rambling softly, Lexa cutting her off. "Not all wars are those fought with a sword, Clarke," she said gently. "Some are of the heart."

Clarke sighed, letting her words wash over her skin. She leant her head against Lexa, closing her eyes, her hands gripping at her sides. "I want to forgive you. I know all too well the decision you made for your people." Clarke swallowed, lowering her voice. "I want to forgive you."

"But?"

"I need time."

"And you can have that time, Clarke."

Lexa turned in her arms so her back was against the table, looking at her earnestly, lovingly. Her eyes drifted to Clarke's lips, hers parting lightly.

Her pupils were completely eclipsing green in the light of the nearby torch. Clarke gripped her hips, stepping closer, so slowly it was almost painful. She just stood, breathing her in. She smelled of leather and wildflowers, like she always had and did the last time she was this close.

Clarke rested her forehead against Lexa's cheek, feeling intoxicated by her. Lexa's hands were gripping the edge of the table at her back. And Clarke could feel herself falling, Lexa drawing her in, like gravity. And she could do nothing to stop it.

She was so close.

Without a second thought Clarke tentatively captured her lips, the softest of sounds escaping Lexa's mouth. Lexa pushed forward gently, taking her bottom lip, her rough palm cupping Clarke's cheek.

The kiss was sweet and full of promise. A promise that Clarke would try. Try to forgive her. And it was full of the apology that Lexa would never give.

But before her lips and her kiss had the chance to burn, Clarke broke it.

She rested her forehead against Lexa's, her eyes closing as she caught her breath.

"It's late." Lexa's was still so close, Clarke feeling her warm breath hit her lips. "I'd feel better if you stayed here the night, at least until the morning."

"Lexa, I-"

"You can stay here, I'll sleep downstairs."

Clarke didn't want to say no, so she didn't say anything.

Lexa moved out of the embrace, grabbing a blanket off the nearest chair and a shirt. "Goodnight, Clarke."

Clarke was touching her lips absently, still tasting Lexa. "Goodnight."

It was said softly, but this time she made sure she heard it. Lexa smiled, those perfect lips pitching lightly before she disappeared down the stairs.


End file.
